


About Last Night

by AI07



Series: Company of Outlaws, Family of In-laws [6]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A.W.O.L. Dwarves, And A Drunk Hobbit, Bets & Wagers, Bofur's Hat - Freeform, Drunk Dwarves, Drunken Everything, Drunken Shenanigans, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves In Distress, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Crack, Gandalf is a Troll, Humor, Iglishmêk, Khuzdul, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Or Is Too Old To Care, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pole Dancing 101, Romance, Thorin Could Be A Love Virgin, and fluff, isn't he always?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AI07/pseuds/AI07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a wild drunken night can leave many unanswered questions the next morning, as well as hangovers. After spending a night at the local inn in Bree, hangovers are the least of the Company of Thorin's Oakenshield's worries.</p><p>For example, why are the Men of Bree suddenly afraid of Ori? How did Kíli end up in a dress? Where on Middle Earth is Glóin's locket, and who is the person responsible for the love bite on Thorin Oakenshield's neck?</p><p>But the real question on everyone's mind is: <em>what happened last night?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	About Last Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daughter_of_the_Mountains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/gifts).



> For Daughter_of_the_Mountains, for just being an awesome pal. Hope you like it! :)
> 
> Khuzdûl and Iglishmêk are written in italics. Enjoy!

"Good evening! Welcome to the Prancing Pony. What will you and your companions be drinking tonight?"

"And a very good evening to you, too, my good sir. A round of beer, if you please, and a large pitcher of your finest wine. For the fussy drinkers, you know."

Gandalf turned his head towards the table where thirteen Dwarves and a mystified-looking Hobbit sat together, stealing a none-too-inconspicuous glance at the Hobbit in question, who flushed to the tips of toes and grumbled something along the lines of, "Bloody old codger, just because I'm a Hobbit, doesn't make me fussy … not at all …"

The Wizard grinned before turning his attention back to the barman, saying, "Yes, the beer and the wine. We'll see how far we'll get with this first round – we might want to order more. In the meantime, see to it that all our rooms are prepared and that our ponies are stabled."

"Righto, sir," replied the barman, nodding. "I'll have your order ready in a jiffy!"

Gandalf left the barman to his preparations and made his way back through the soon-to-be-rowdy throngs of Bree-folk to his designated table, where he cheerfully proclaimed to its occupants as he sat down and lit his pipe, "Well, my dear fellows, the drinks are on its merry way. I don't know about you lot, but I can't wait! It's been a while since I've relaxed with a pipe in hand and a drink in the other. Isn't that the life?"

Thorin Oakenshield merely glared with all his might at the Wizard.

"I can't believe I let you convince us to stay here at this inn, Gandalf," he said in a low yet heated tone, crossing his arms across his chest. His ice-clue eyes were narrowed. "I thought the plan was _not_ to be noticed whilst we carried out this quest."

"Tell me, Thorin, would you rather travel throughout the night and sleep in the rain, or would you prefer the warm comforts of a soft bed and a mug of ale?" retorted the taller being, puffing out a perfect smoke-ring in the dark-haired Dwarf's direction.

"Actually, I'm inclined to agree with Thorin, Gandalf," piped up Bilbo Baggins, casting a worried eye around him. "I dare say that a group of Dwarves, a Hobbit _and_ a Wizard hanging about together might look quite strange and raise, uh, a few suspicions."

Gandalf chuckled. "You needn't worry, Bilbo," he said assuringly. "The Men of Bree are quite used to – and are very familiar with – Dwarves and Hobbits, among others. If you can remember what those books of yours say, the Bree-folk comprise mainly of Men and Hobbits – "Big-folk" and "Little-folk" are terms that they use to refer to each other as. Also, Dwarves are not an unwelcome nor unusual sight. Over the years they have travelled through Bree to look for work and such. Ask Thorin, he can elaborate on _that_ for you!"

Bilbo hesitated before turning to look at the royal Dwarf sitting across from him; Thorin turned his ice-blue gaze on the smaller creature, a frown (more like a scowl) tugging at his lips and an eyebrow raised in a no-nonsense manner.

Gulping, the Hobbit turned away and looked down at his lap, a blush creeping to his cheeks.

 _I think I'll ask him next time – or perhaps maybe **not**_ , he thought to himself.

Raising his other eyebrow in response to the burglar's sudden withdrawal, Thorin turned back to Gandalf.

"As much as I hate to say this, but I do see no point in wasting an opportunity to indulge in comfort before we enter the wild," he said. "But we cannot afford to stay here for long. One night at this inn should be sufficient, I think. We will leave tomorrow morning."

"Yes, yes, whatever you say, Thorin," replied Gandalf, rolling his eyes behind a cloud of smoke. "Goodness gracious, where in the world is the barman with our damn drinks?"

Ignoring the Wizard, Thorin turned his attention to the rest of his Dwarvish – and Hobbit – companions to address them.

"Again, we shall leave tomorrow morning," he declared. "Make the most of this night, but I warn you –"

His voice turned into a sinister rumble.

" _No_ funny business. On no account are any of you going to act out of hand or draw attention to yourselves. Converse with the patrons if you wish, but do _not_ speak of our current quest. Keep your wits about you _at all times_ and do not leave the inn."

"Yes, _Amad_ ," said Kíli drily, earning himself disapproving glares from both his brother and his uncle.

"Don't you worry about us, Thorin, we can take care of ourselves," said Dwalin from beside their leader. He gestured at himself and towards Balin, Óin and Glóin. "You know how _we_ are; we can hold our drink well enough. Aye, lads?"

His brother and their cousins grunted in agreement.

Across the table, Nori raised a braided eyebrow.

"When it comes to drinkin', I've 'eard differently 'bout the line of Durin," he remarked sardonically. "Some blokes 'round Ered Luin say that they can barely 'old their drink ter save their lives."

He smirked at Fíli and Kíli. "And I'm willin' ter bet that the apple – or _apples_ – don't fall far from the tree. T'be 'onest, I fink we know that there's a special pair of weak apples 'angin' off the Durin branch."

Thorin's cousins glared at the star-shaped-haired Dwarf, but their furious expressions could not compare to that of Fíli and Kíli. The brothers were staring daggers, arrows and spears at the thief ( _now Nori knows how_ I _feel whenever Thorin looks at me_ , thought Bilbo, _although they don't have piercing blue eyes like him; a rather intense blue shade that is quite captivating to behold –_ _no, Bilbo, don't think such ridiculous thoughts about that bigot_ _ed Dwarf,_ _even if he_ does _have nice eyes_ _! …_ )

" _You're_ one to talk, Nori," said Fíli, practically snarling. "I've seen you after two or three drinks. You and Bofur were completely _smashed_ after we stayed in that inn on the way to the Shire – two-and-a-half mugs of ale down your throat, and you two decided to pick a fight with the biggest, toughest-looking bloke in the tavern!"

"Aye, and remember when we were in Master Boggins' home?" cut in Kíli ("It's _Baggins_ , Kíli," sighed Bilbo, knowing his efforts were futile). "You and Bofur had one mug of ale – _one mug_ , mind! – and the next minute you were tipsy and fighting over some sausages!"

"And Bofur proceeded to scare the Halfling out of his wits with that talk of the dragon," added Glóin, smiling maliciously, "and Nori was eggin' him on – don't you deny it, Nori, I was sittin' next to you! And weren't you havin' a laugh out of the business; I could smell the alcohol on your breath every time you slurred, "Go on, Bofur, my son, you tell the Hobbit the deal!" Who's a weak apple now, eh?"

Whilst Nori spluttered in defence and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Bofur entered the fray.

"To be fair, lads," he started, tugging nervously on his beloved hat, "Master Baggins' ale _was_ a bit too strong for our palates –"

Bombur rolled his eyes.

"– and that big 'un at the tavern was askin' for it," Bofur continued, grimacing at the memory. "A foul and shifty git, he was, givin' us the evil-eye and gettin' in our faces."

" _Because you two were making bloody fools of yourselves,_ " signed Bifur in Iglishmêk, frowning at his hat-wearing cousin.

"Aye, that you were!" agreed Dori, glaring at his younger brother. "For all the noise you were makin', I should have let that goon knock some sense into your heads!"

He gestured towards Ori. "And I'll never forget how you forced mug after mug of beer on Ori, when you knew perfectly well that your brother has a weak stomach. Why, the lad passed out on the tavern floor because you kept pourin' the stuff down his throat without pause for breath – I thought he had _died_ , for Mahal's sake!"

Ori "harumphed!" obstinately, crossing his arms.

"I don't have a weak stomach," he complained bitterly under his breath. "I can hold my drink just fine."

Óin snorted when he (surprisingly) heard that. "When you're related to Nori _and_ Dori, you can hold your drink as well as Fíli and Kíli keepin' out of trouble – as in _never_."

Whilst most of the Dwarves chortled at a flushing-red Ori's expense (and that of the pair of protesting princes), Dori huffed in irritation.

"For your information, my brothers and I are better at maintainin' our alcohol intake and upholdin' our dignity and decorum than _some_ Dwarves I know – not namin' names," he declared, peering in the directions of the deaf healer, Glóin and Dwalin in such an obvious manner. It made the tattooed latter growl:

"You're talkin' rubbish, Dori. I – _we_ – can manage our alcohol intake just fine!"

"Oh please," the silver-haired Dwarf clucked. "I saw you sneakin' into Óin's room to get a remedy for your hangover on the morning we left that tavern – all because you let yourself go the night before!"

Dwalin spluttered indignantly as all eyes, including Thorin's amused ones and Balin's disapproving ones, fell on him. "At least I'm a better drinker than _Bombur_!"

"Ye know perfectly well that I don't drink more than my usual pint, Mister Dwalin," Bombur intervened, sitting up in his chair with a frown, "so there's no good tryin' to deflect blame off yerself and onto me."

"Ye tell him, Bom!" said Bofur, grinning as he patted the big Dwarf's shoulder with pride. "My brother, he's a good 'un. Never drinks more than a pint 'cause alcohol makes him sleepy. One sip from a second pint, and he sleeps like a baby throughout the night."

" _No offence, Bifur, but I wish alcohol had the same effect on that loud-mouth cousin of yours_ ," Óin signed underhandedly to the axe-embedded Dwarf.

" _None taken,_ " he replied with a tired look as his hat-wearing cousin continued to sing his brother's praises.

"A real, responsible champ, is our Bombur! No one can compare … not even Mister Balin!"

Balin rubbed his face with a groan. "For Mahal's sake, I didn't want to get involved in this conversation …"

Sensing the advisor's discomfort, Thorin decided to enter the so-called conversation ( _why he's only doing this now after all this time, I'll never understand_ , thought Bilbo). He did so by banging the table with a clenched fist, making everyone at the table jump in their seats. They all turned to face him: he wore a serious look on his face, and his eyes were narrowed in a fierce fashion.

" _Enough_ ," he thundered. "Your pointless arguing is only serving to make you lot look like fools. Not to mention the fact that the excessively loud volume of your voices will draw unwanted attention."

The dark-haired Dwarf paused, running his eyes over each person seated before him. When his orbs settled on Bilbo, the Hobbit shuddered.

_Imagine how spectacular they'd look when they're not filled with anger – what am I saying?!_

Those eyes lingered on him for exactly three seconds before moving on. Their owner continued to speak.

"But if you heed my rules," he whispered, "nothing untoward will happen, and then we can get on with our journey. Am I understood?"

The Company nodded.

"Oh, what a serious little tit you are, Thorin," grumbled Gandalf, puffing on his pipe. "You need to loosen up – and what better way to do that than by having a few drinks?"

The Company nodded again, albeit with a little more enthusiasm.

"Not a few drinks, _one_ drink," replied Thorin, frowning. "And no, I'm not planning to loosen up. Hopefully, neither are my companions. I don't want this quest to be jeopardised."

Groans and protests hit his ears.

"Actually, Uncle," Fíli started, "a few drinks wouldn't hurt –"

" _One_ drink, and that is that."

"Not even _two_ pints of beer?" asked Kíli in a soft tone.

"One pint," the older Dwarf replied staunchly.

"One and a half?"

"One pint."

"One and a quarter?"

" _One_. Any more than that, and you'll walk the rest of the way to Erebor."

Kíli shut up after that.

 _It's just as well. I'm sure Kíli will be content with even just one pint of alcohol – he's lucky to get_ any _at all!_

Just then, a loud voice cut above the racket surrounding the table:

"Make way! Make way! Oy, watch it, we've got an order in our hands, if you don't mind. What, you blind and deaf? Get outta the way, or I'll drop you lot on your arses faster than a cow drops a load! Make _way_!"

"I think our drinks are coming," Bilbo murmured softly to himself.

The crowd parted, and the forms of the barman himself and his assistant (who was a cheeky-looking Hobbit) appeared beside the Company's table. In the barman's hands were two trays loaded with tall mugs of cool, frothy beers; a large pitcher of ruby-red wine and two glass tumblers were held on a tray by the Hobbit aide.

"Here you go, lads, one round of beer and wine," he announced, beginning to unload his tray. "Chutters, that's one tumbler for the Hobbit gentleman, and the other … well, they can decide!"

"At last!" cried Gandalf in delight. "What took you so long?"

"Well, sir, have you seen how busy we are? It's always crowded at the Prancing Pony on a Wednesday night, you know, 'cause it's cheaper to buy ale in the mid-week."

"Two pints for the price of one," chirruped his assistant.

Everyone's ears perked up at that. Fíli and Kíli opened their mouths to speak, but quickly closed it when they saw Thorin's steely look.

"Chutters and I," the barman continued, gesturing to the Hobbit beside him, "had to serve you the drinks ourselves, just because the rest of my staff are beleaguered by the Bree-folk's orders. And I warn you …"

His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Bree-folk, they can be rowdy after a couple of pints, so I'd be a bit careful if I were you. They can be nasty when they want to be, and downright sly, for sure! Keep your goods to yourself, don't try and kick a fuss around 'em, and do keep those weapons of yours out of sight – they might just want to pick a fight."

"It takes a while to clean up the mess," Chutters said with a chilling smile ( _my gawd, what a gruesome thing he is … he must be related to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, I'm sure of it!_ ).

"We'll keep your, uh, warning in mind," said Gandalf, wiping the remaining glass tumbler with his sleeve. "Thanks for the drinks. We'll make our payment when we leave tomorrow."

When the barman and Chutters left, Thorin turned to his companions, almost looking smug.

"You see? The barman proved my point. This tavern is a hot-spot for trouble, so under no circumstances are we to lose control."

"Yes, Uncle, so you've emphasised a _million_ times in the last five minutes alone," grumbled Kíli. "Can we drink now?"

"Cheeky little tomfool," said the dark-haired Dwarf, though he could not help but smile ( _I never knew he could do that!_ ) as he continued, "I ought to send you to your room for that saucy remark."

"I love you, too, Uncle," came the airy reply.

The Dwarves reached for their mugs, whilst Gandalf poured out the wine into the tumblers for himself and Bilbo. The smell of the wine was steely, as in sharp and seemingly acidic. He would have much preferred a brandy, but he doubted he would find one of great quality at this establishment.

_Anyway, I don't want to appear snooty in front of that Chutters chap. Or Thorin, for that matter. I don't want him to think that I'm ungrateful …_

_I'll have what they give me._

"Well, dear fellows, here's to a pleasant evening," proclaimed Gandalf, raising his glass. "May we all have a good and uneventful night; we deserve a little rest and relaxation. Cheers!"

"Cheers!" his companions chorused, knocking their drinks together before taking large gulps of their drinks.

And oh, the taste of the ale was _heavenly_ …

Almost irresistible …

* * *

"Did you see that? Did you see what that little Dwarf _did_ to him?!"

…

"Look at him go!"

…

"Ye gods, there's blood everywhere!"

…

"RUN! _RUUUU_ _UUU_ _N!_ "

…

"You're not going anywhere 'til you pay me every single cent!"

…

"Five gold coins. Take it or shove off."

…

"Thank you, Mister Dwarf."

…

"Mister Dwarf, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

…

_I have to tell my brother, before … befooore …_

…

"He didn't finish! He didn't finish!"

…

"Tell me something … do I look bee- _yooo_ -tiful?"

…

"You're … you're _incredible_ …"

…

" _Ugh_ … we … can't do this …"

…

"I want … I want … _you_ …"

…

* * *

.

.

.

"… oooffff … _oooofffff_ …"

When Bilbo awoke the next morning, his head felt akin to an egg being cracked open. The Hobbit simply laid splayed out in his bed, blinking furiously up at the ceiling as the throbbing sensation in his skull sent pulsating wave upon wave of pain through his tired, aching body. A groan would escape past his parched lips every few seconds.

_I could almost cry, it hurts something fierce._

But even crying would do no good, Bilbo thought: the very act would make the pain worse. The actual thought of crying made the throbbing sensation quicken. Why, the pain made the act of thinking unbearable in itself.

Before he stopped thinking altogether, Bilbo thought it was best to go over to Óin's room to see if the healer had a remedy for his hangover – _yes, I have a hangover. No doubt about it._

 _But I don't remember drinking_ that _much last night …_

_I can barely remember how I even made it back to my room._

_I bet Gandalf is to blame for this … ooofff …_

With a reluctant sigh, the Hobbit got up from his bed, catching himself just in time as the weight in his head threw him off balance and made him stumble over his feet. Gingerly, after putting on his dressing-gown, he made his way to Óin's room.

On the way, Bilbo met Bofur on the landing. He was sure he looked awful ( _my hair feels all mussed up and tangled, and I probably appear green because of my dizziness_ ), but the Dwarf looked just as bad as Bilbo felt. His chestnut-brown hair was not braided, instead hanging down over his shoulders in untidy curls. His magnificent moustache drooped at its ends. Dark shadows appeared under his eyes, and his cheeks were ruddy. His clothing was crumpled, and his scarf was wrapped only once around his neck, nearly touching the ground and causing him to trip.

Still, he gave the Hobbit a warm smile as he leant on the railings for support. "Mornin', Master Baggins," he greeted, rubbing his eyes. "Looks like we had more than we should have."

"I think so," replied Bilbo politely, also trying to maintain his balance. "How do you feel?"

"As rough as a badger's arse," answered Bofur, pinching his nose. "Mahal's balls, my mouth feels like a fur boot an' all. It's the Fear, I'm tellin' ye, the real Fear that's got me."

"Where's Bombur? And Bifur?"

"Oh, Bombur's still asleep. Probably went to bed after he had his pint, bless him, but I can't remember. Last night was a blur, to be honest. And I'm sure Bifur's up and about. He wasn't in our room when I woke up. I can tell ye, though, he's probably gone out to have a bit of fresh air. He reckons it's nature's cure for when his head feels like a mattress that's been burst open."

"Where's your hat?"

"Me hat? I'm suppose it's lyin' around somewhere in the room. I'll get it soon. Goin' over to Óin's room, are ye? I'll join ye."

The two companions walked (read: staggered) to Óin's room. They also encountered a slightly bedraggled Ori and Balin. The scribe, trying to smooth his short, messy brown locks, explained that Dori and Nori, both still lying in bed, had sent him to the healer for some medication.

"But when I passed this big, Bree gentleman after my brothers sent me out, he gave a sort of strangled sound when he saw me and hurried away," he said, mystified. "Quite odd, but I shouldn't dwell on it, I suppose."

Balin, on the other hand, looked quite ill. He was clutching his stomach, and his skin had attained a pale-white colour.

"I must have caught a bug or something," he said, "although I don't know how that happened. I was feelin' alright last night. Hopefully my cousin will have something for my ailment."

_Just don't get sick on me, please._

The four comrades finally made it to Óin and Glóin's quarters, where they met the brothers and Thorin Oakenshield himself. And suffice to say, the royal Dwarf looked terrible. His dark hair hung in lank strands, his skin was pallid and his ice-blue eyes were clouded over ever so slightly. The Dwarf was slouching, and his clothes were rumpled here and there from his tunic-collar to his trousers, adding to his tired appearance. He grunted out a greeting to the arrivals.

_He looked like he had a few drinks himself, the hypocritical bigot. At least he's suffering for it._

The others thought the same.

"Sleep well?" Balin asked him, smirking.

Thorin scowled. "I should have known not to trust Gandalf to manage the drink order," he rumbled. "He's responsible for this mess, I know it. Ordering round after round of ale, damn him …"

Ori wrinkled his nose. "Was it him, Mister Oakenshield? I mean, I can recall it being someone else, although I'm not entirely sure …"

"We're blaming Gandalf, so let's leave it at that," Thorin replied, rubbing his aching temples and grumbling to himself, "Him and his _dulikhmuzm hubmu_ will be the death of me one day …"

"I'll drink to that!" Bofur declared before groaning. "Er, right after I get something to clear my head."

Óin also looked like he had a rough night. His grey hair was also unkempt and unbraided. Under his eyes were dark circles, and his scarf was loose around his neck. He was sitting on his bed and sorting through his bottles when he greeted his visitors. Behind him was Glóin, who was unpacking his travelling satchel and searching its contents. His haggard face, framed by his uncombed fiery tendrils, held a desperate expression.

"'Ere, what's the matter with Glóin?" Bofur asked Óin.

The grey-haired Dwarf sighed. "My brother can't find his blasted locket. He's been searchin' for it all mornin', and nearly turned this room upside-down. Last he saw it was last night. He probably misplaced it."

"He'll find it eventually," said Balin sympathetically, watching his youngest cousin empty out another bag. "He treasures that locket more than gold and silver because it has those portraits of his wife and son in it. It will be found."

Óin nodded in agreement before turning to Bofur again. "Say, is your cousin up and about? There was something I wanted to tell him – or at least I _did_ tell him – last night, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was. Something important, I think."

"Bifur? Didn't see him this morning, but I think he's nipped out. He'll come back soon."

Just then, Fíli entered. His unbrushed golden locks was wavy, much longer than Bilbo had envisioned. His eyes, also blue ( _but certainly not like Thorin's, of course_ ) but a bit bloodshot, were brimming with concern. After greeting his companions, he turned to Thorin.

"I _still_ can't find my hair-beads, Uncle Thorin," he bemoaned. "I've looked _everywhere_ for them. Up, down, under the bed, behind the shelves, but there's no sign of them. And Kíli's hardly helping, the lazy sod. He's practically buried underneath his blanket and he won't get up."

"Don't worry, Fíli, we'll find them," his uncle soothed, touching his shoulder. "There's no way that _all_ of your hair-beads could have disappeared."

"I bet one of those Bree-folk stole them, along with my locket," snarled a furious Glóin as he pulled out a drawer. "They look like ruddy criminals, the whole bally lot of them!"

"Hush up, Glóin, I'm sure they did no such thing," said Balin in a calming tone (which was a feat despite the pain in his stomach). "I doubt they would have the capability to harm us."

And just then, Dwalin walked in.

And immediately he was met with horrified yells.

"DWALIN, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR NOSE?!"

The tall Dwarf's nose was somewhat crooked, and its bridge was a dark shade of red, almost maroon. Dry blood caked his right nostril and was found in flecks on his moustache, his beard and the front of his tunic.

_My happy hat, it looks like he just came out of a war!_

"Mahal's hairy balls on a stick, what the hell did you do to yourself?" Balin cried, running towards his brother with Óin in tow.

Dwalin stared. "It's nod like I diddid on purposh."

"Say what?"

"He said, "It's not like I did it on purpose"," said Ori helpfully.

"Thang koo, Orwi," said Dwalin as he swatted away Balin's hands.

"When did this happen?" Thorin asked him.

"Lasht nide," the warrior Dwarf replied. "Bud when I find the buggah ooh did dis to me …"

His threat was clear enough.

"Can you straighten his nose?" Bilbo asked.

"Aye, I can, but it will be bloody sore," Óin answered, assessing the damage. "Upon my soul, I don't remember you gettin' into a fight, Dwalin."

"I dond, eider," his cousin said dismally.

"Eh?"

""I don't, either"," Ori supplied.

"Me neither," said Fíli, smiling a little, "but I jolly well want to congratulate the person who gave you that nasty knock."

"I'll knock _koo_ ," snarled his second-cousin, about to make his way to the golden-haired prince …

… when Kíli walked through the door.

Everyone gasped.

"What?" the dark-haired prince mumbled tiredly, his bleary eyes half-shut.

A shocked silence.

_Oh, my happy stars …_

"What's going on? Why's everyone staring at me? And Dwalin, what happened to your snout?"

"Kíli," Thorin whispered, goggling his youngest nephew. "You're wearing … _a dress_."

Kíli's eyes shot open. "I'm _what_?"

"Aye, brother," said Fíli, stepping forward to gape at his sibling, "you're wearing a _lady's bloody dress_!"

"I'm not," Kíli responded, looking awake now.

"You _are_ , you daft git!" Fíli insisted. "Look at yourself in the mirror, if you don't believe me!"

His brother obeyed, running to the full-length mirror standing in the corner. When he gazed upon his reflection, Bilbo saw the young Dwarf's face turning a dark shade of crimson.

It was a small dress, fit for a teenage woman's build. The bodice was black in colour, laced to fit with brass grommets, and it was attached to a matching skirt that just about touched the floor. The actual bodice accentuated the pinch of the Dwarf's waist. Underneath was a white muslin underdress with long puffy sleeves; the hem-line touched the floor in a billowy fashion. The top was cut to expose the prince's shoulders and his collar-bones.

"Oh my …" Kíli whispered, red as a beetroot. "How did this … how did did I end up in a _dress_?! _How_ …?!"

"What did I tell you?" Glóin cried, hands on his hips. "It's the Bree-folk, I tell you! They're behind this nonsense!"

Kíli ignored him – he had eyes only for his reflection.

"This can't be happening to me," he whimpered, covering his face. "I can't _believe_ this is happening to me …"

"Don't feel bad, Kí," said Fíli. "You look rather fetching, if that helps."

Thorin frowned at him before stepping towards his nephew. "Can you remember what happened last night?"

"No, I can't!" whined Kíli, staring at the mirror. "I can barely remember a damn, diddly thing, and then –"

Suddenly he stopped, staring hard into the mirror with narrowing eyes. He seemed to be focusing on something.

"Kíli?" his uncle whispered, sounding concerned.

Without warning, Kíli turned around, his dress whipping out behind him. He stared hard at Thorin – or rather at his collar, from where Bilbo was standing.

_What's going on?_

"Kíli?" Thorin said again, now confused.

"Uncle," the dark-haired prince said slowly, "what's that on the side of your neck?"

"What? The side of my _neck_?"

"Aye. There's something on it."

Behind Thorin, everyone leaned forward to get a glimpse of his neck, except it was partially covered by his collar.

"What does it look like, Kíli?" the dark-haired Dwarf asked, about to feel his neck when his sister-son suddenly swatted it away.

"Hold still," he whispered, stepping closer to the older Dwarf. "Hold _very_ still …"

"What, is it a bug? An insect of sorts?"

"No," was Kíli's answer before he reached out to tug down Thorin's collar, exposing his neck in its entirety. In a few seconds, Kíli's eyes widened in surprise, shock and utter disbelief.

"Sweet Yavanna, mother of Middle Earth," he gasped. "I can't believe what I'm seeing!"

"What is it?" Thorin asked again, sounding less than patient.

"Yes, what is it?" repeated Fíli, who had skipped over to his brother's side. When Kíli pointed to the spot he was focused on, the golden-haired prince's mouth dropped open in blatant astonishment.

"Why, knock me down with the hammer of Aulë!" he exclaimed, shaking his head.

Thorin growled in frustration. "I'm going to ask this _one more time_ , and I expect an answer: what is it?"

Fíli and Kíli stared goggle-eyed at his neck before turning to their uncle.

"Uncle, what did you _do_ last night?"

Thorin glared back. "I want an answer to _my_ question first before I answer yours!"

"Fíli, Kíli, could you _please_ tell us what is going on before Thorin throttles you?" Balin cut in, biting his bottom lip to prevent a pained moan from escaping.

The brothers glanced at each other before nodding.

"Have a look for yourself," they said before they unceremoniously turned their protesting uncle towards the others. When his neck came into view, Bilbo's eyes widened to the point that they looked reminiscent of dinner plates.

_What in the blue blazes …?!_

On the right side of Thorin's throat was a bruise the size of a silver coin. It was purplish-red in colour, standing out obscenely from the Dwarf's fair skin. The top of his collar had hidden it from view, but as the Dwarves and the Hobbit stared at it, they wondered how they missed it.

"Good grief, what is it?" Ori enquired, bemused.

"That's what _I_ want to know!" Thorin huffed before flouncing away from the group and standing before the mirror. When his eyes found the bruise, they nearly burned a hole in his reflection. "What _is_ that?! And for goodness sake, TELL ME!"

"Uncle," said Fíli slowly, "you might not believe this – I mean, we can't believe it ourselves! – but … Uncle Thorin, _you_ _'ve_ _got a_ _love bite_."

The royal Dwarf turned around, narrowing his eyes. "A love _what_?"

"A love bite," repeated Kíli, still stunned. "Out of everyone here, I never thought _you'd_ get one!"

"I don't understand, what's a love bite?" Thorin barked, though he looked worried. "Is it another name for a bruise caused by bug-bites or something?"

"Actually, Thorin, those aren't made by bugs," piped up Óin, his cheeks flushing, "they're made by _people._ "

"People? What …?"

"Aye," agreed Bofur, twirling a piece of his hair nervously. "It's, um, a bruise that shows up when a person, erm, _kiss_ _es_ the other … quite hard … on, uh, different places on the body … like the neck …"

"Excuse me?" Now Thorin was flabbergasted. "You're saying that someone was … was _kissing_ me? On the _neck?_ "

The Dwarves nodded.

"But … but … how is that possible?" he spluttered. "I don't remember letting anyone near me last night. A-A-And I would NEVER let myself lose my inhibitions like that!"

Fíli and Kíli gaped at him.

"You're saying that you can't remember who was kissing you last night?" they exclaimed. "At _all_?!"

Thorin was flushing, making the love bite even more obvious. "Of course not! My memories of last night are fuzzy, if not non-existent. I don't remember Dwalin getting into any fights or why Kíli was wearing a dress, and, above all, I certainly don't remember who's behind this _bloody_ bruise on my neck!"

And it was in that crucial second that Bilbo felt a deep, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that just about nearly brought him to his knees.

_The night before …_

_Thorin … me … walking up the stairs …_

It was coming back to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Dulikhmuzm hubmu - Bulls**t. (Thanks, Khuzdul4U!)
> 
> Alternatively called "The Hangover: Part 4". ^3^ One of those ideas along with "A Babysitter's Dozen" that came into my head a few months ago that just came back with a vengeance ... happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> Hope you like the first chapter so far - if you can figure out what happened last night, and which character those 14 lines in the middle are each referring to, I will give you babysitting duty in for ABD's next chapter. And some naked Dwarves in "The Resolution Project" Chapter 6. XD It's on its way!
> 
> Comments/kudos are welcome!
> 
> *~AI07~* ;)


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